The Bourne Ultimatum by Robert Ludlum

“Where are the targets?” said the beaten capo supremo, his defeat painful to him.

“At a small private airfield in Pontcarré, about forty-five minutes from Paris. They’re waiting for a plane that was grounded in Poitiers because of bad weather. It can’t possibly arrive for at least an hour and a quarter.”

“Did you bring the equipment we requested?” asked Mario rapidly.

“It’s all there,” answered the countess, gesturing at the large black suitcase on a chair against the wall.

“A car, a fast car!” cried DeFazio as his executioner retrieved the suitcase.

“Outside,” replied the count. “The driver will know where to take you. He’s been to that field.”

“Come on, cugino. Tonight we collect and you can settle a score!”

Except for a single clerk behind the counter in the small one-room terminal and an air controller hired to stay the extra hours in the radio tower, the private airport in Pontcarré was deserted. Alex Conklin and Mo Panov stayed discreetly behind as Bourne led Marie outside to the gate area fronting the field beyond a waist-high metal fence. Two strips of receding amber ground lights defined the long runway for the plane from Poitiers; they had been turned on only a short time ago.

“It won’t be long now,” said Jason.

“This whole damn thing’s stupid,” retorted Webb’s wife. “Everything.”

“There’s no reason for you to stay and every reason for you to leave. For you to be alone here in Paris would be stupid. Alex is right. If Carlos’s people found you, you’d be taken hostage, so why risk it?”

“Because I’m capable of staying out of sight and I don’t want to be ten thousand miles away from you. You’ll forgive me if I worry about you, Mr. Bourne. And care for you.”

Jason looked at her in the shadows, grateful for the darkness; she could not clearly see his eyes. “Then be reasonable and use your head,” he said coldly, suddenly feeling so old, too old for such a transparently false lack of feeling. “We know Carlos is in Moscow and Krupkin isn’t far behind him. Dimitri’s flying us there in the morning, and we’ll be under the protection of the KGB in the tightest city in the world. What more could we want?”

“You were under the protection of the United States government on a short East Side block in New York thirteen years ago and it didn’t do you much good.”

“There’s a great deal of difference. Back then the Jackal knew exactly where I was going and when I’d be there. Right now he has no idea we even know he’s in Moscow. He’s got other problems, big ones for him, and he thinks we’re here in Paris—he’s ordered his people to keep searching for us.”

“What will you do in Moscow?”

“We won’t know until we get there, but whatever it is, it’s better than here in Paris. Krupkin’s been busy. Every ranking officer in Dzerzhinsky Square who speaks French is being watched and is under surveillance. He said the French narrowed down the possibilities and that something should break. … Something will break; the odds are on our side. And when it does, I can’t be worried about you back here.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve said in the past thirty-six hours.”

“So be it. You should be with the children and you know that. You’ll be out of reach and safe … and the kids need you. Mrs. Cooper’s a terrific lady, but she’s not their mother. Besides, your brother probably has Jamie smoking his Cuban cigars and playing Monopoly with real money by now.”

Marie looked up at her husband, a gentle smile apparent in the darkness as well as in her voice. “Thanks for the laugh. I need it.”

“It’s probably the truth—your brother, I mean. If there are good-looking women on the staff, it’s quite possible our son’s lost his virginity.”

“David!” Bourne was silent. Marie chuckled briefly, then went on. “I suppose I really can’t argue with you.”

“And you would if my argument was flawed, Dr. St. Jacques. That’s something I’ve learned over the past thirteen years.”

“I still object to this crazy trip back to Washington! From here to Marseilles, then to London, then on a flight to Dulles. It’d be so much simpler just to get on a plane from Orly to the States.”

“It’s Peter Holland’s idea. He’ll meet you himself, so ask him; he doesn’t say an awful lot on the phone. I suspect he doesn’t want to deal with the French authorities for fear of a leak to Carlos’s people. A single woman with a common name on crowded flights is probably best.”

“I’ll spend more time sitting in airports than in the air.”

“Probably, so cover those great legs of yours and carry a Bible.”

“That’s sweet,” said Marie, touching his face. “I suddenly hear you, David.”

“What?” Again Bourne did not respond to the warmth.

“Nothing. … Do me a favor, will you?”

“What is it?” asked Jason, in a distant monotone.

“Bring that David back to me.”

“Let’s get an update on the plane,” said Bourne, his voice flat and abrupt as he touched her elbow and led her back inside. I’m getting older—old—and I cannot much longer be what I am not. The Chameleon is slipping away, the imagination isn’t there the way it used to be. But I cannot stop! Not now! Get away from me, David Webb!

No sooner had they reentered the small terminal than the telephone on the counter began to ring. The lone clerk picked it up. “Oui?” He listened for no more than five seconds. “Merci,” he said, hanging up and addressing the four interested parties in French. “That was the tower. The plane from Poitiers will be on the ground in approximately four minutes. The pilot requests that you be ready, madame, as he would like to fly ahead of the weather front moving east.”

“So would I,” agreed Marie, rushing to Alex Conklin and Mo Panov. The farewells were brief, the embraces strong, the words heartfelt. Bourne led his wife back outside. “I just remembered—where are Krupkin’s guards?” she asked as Jason unlatched the gate and they walked toward the lighted runway.

“We don’t need them or want them,” he answered. “The Soviet connection was made in the Montaigne, so we have to assume the embassy’s being watched. No guards rushing out into cars, therefore no movement on our part for Carlos’s people to report.”

“I see.” The sound of a small decelerating jet could be heard as the plane circled the airfield once and made its descent onto the four-thousand-foot runway. “I love you so much, David,” said Marie, raising her voice to be heard over the roar of the aircraft, rolling toward them.

“He loves you so much,” said Bourne, images colliding in his mind. “I love you so much.”

The jet loomed clearly into view between the rows of amber lights, a white bullet-like machine with short delta wings sweeping back from the fuselage, giving it the appearance of an angry flying insect. The pilot swung the plane around in a circle, coming to a jarring stop as the automatic passenger door sprang out and up while metal steps slapped down to the ground. Jason and Marie ran toward the jet’s entrance.

It happened with the sudden impact of a murderous wind shear, at once unstoppable, enveloping, the swirling winds of death! Gunfire. Automatic weapons—two of them; one nearby, one farther away—shattering windows, ripping into wood, a piercing screech of pain erupting from the terminal, announcing a mortal hit.

With both hands Bourne gripped Marie by the waist, heaving her up and propelling her into the plane as he shouted to the pilot. “Shut the door and get out of here!”

“Mon Dieu!” cried the man from the open flight deck. “Allez-vous-en!” he roared, ordering Jason away from the spring-hinged door and the metal steps, gunning the jet’s engine as the plane lurched forward. Jason plunged to the ground and raised his eyes. Marie’s face was pressed against the window; she was screaming hysterically. The plane thundered down the runway; it was free.

Bourne was not. He was caught in the wash of the amber lights, the glowing rows a cyclorama of yellowish orange. No matter where he stood or knelt or crouched he was in silhouette. So he pulled out the automatic from his belt—the weapon, he reflected, given to him by Bernardine—and began slithering, snaking his way across the asphalt toward the bordering grass outside the fenced-gate area.

The gunfire erupted again, but now they were three scattered single shots from within the terminal, where the lights had been extinguished. They had to have come from Conklin’s gun, or possibly the clerk’s if he had a weapon; Panov did not. Then who had been hit? … No time! A shattering fusillade burst out of the nearest automatic rifle; it was steady, prolonged and deadly, spraying the side of the small building and the gate area.